Dramione Oneshots

Still Hate Me, Malfoy? (smut)

Unlike any time before, Malfoy all but ignored her while simultaneously fucking her into the wall. She felt like he was punishing her for something, though, for what, she had no idea. Over her whinging and between his grounding, she heard him whispering something but it was too muffled by her shoulder to be sure she heard him correctly.

He continued thrusting forcefully until he came. By this point, she didn’t want him to stop. The dull pain had subsided and she was so close to a second climax, one that might have actually proved satisfactory. Today was obviously not about her, because he pulled himself from her and made no move to continue.

“What was tha-'' He cut off her question with a bruising kiss. It was aggressive and she didn’t like it. She turned her head from him to break away from his lips. “Malfoy!” His behaviour was unusual and it was concerning her slightly.

“I need to go. Let’s work on the project Saturday after lunch.”

“But this weekend is a Hogsmeade trip,” she pouted, more from the disappointment of not getting off a second time than from missing out on her date.

“Since when do you care about Hogsmeade?”

“I guess I don't.” And she didn’t. Not really. In fact, she would have preferred staying in and studying with Malfoy than joining Anthony on whatever it was he was planning. “I do need a few quills though.”

“Good. Then it’s settled. I’ll meet you here Saturday at noon.”

“But-” He kissed her again, with slightly more compassion, and left.

. . .

On Wednesday, Hermione was taken aback by the sudden appearance of an old barn owl landing directly in front of her. Attached to his leg was a bundle of four packages; three long and narrow, one much wider. Each one read Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop in fancy calligraphy. This was where she bought all of her quills, but these were their premium boxes, not ones used for the standard goose feathers she purchased regularly. Inside the largest box lay five beautiful quills; three swan feathers, one owl and one from either a raven or a crow, based on the black colour. She had only ever owned goose feather quills because they were far less expensive, but she had used one from a swan before. It was significantly better. Hence the cost.

In the three narrow boxes were three individual quills. The first was of a greyish-green feather that most likely belonged to an Augurey. The Irish bred phoenix was slightly less rare, but only because there was a conservation that both protected and helped breed them. Feathers were sold as a means to generate revenue to sustain the facilities. The next was a bright orange feather that she really hoped was from a fwooper and not from an English phoenix, though considering the previous box, it was a toss up either way. Finally, the last box contained a short, blue speckled feather she recognized as that of a jobberknoll. Each of the three had an individual value greater than she would have spent on all of her goose quills throughout the entire year. There was only one person who could spend this much on something as frivolous as feathers . Actually, that wasn’t true. There were arguably two people who could afford to spend this much money, but knowing Harry would never be so foolish – and the fact that he didn’t buy her gifts at random – it was somehow safer to assume that the man she confessed needing quills to, the man who basically owned half of Wizarding England even after war reparations, bought her quills. Stupidly and unnecessarily luxurious quills.

Looking over toward the Slytherin, he was nowhere to be found, but a quick glance to the door caught him slipping out. She replaced the lid on the boxes, gathered them up along with her bag and rushed out to find him. By the time she reached the corridor though, he was nowhere to be seen.